


The Merits of Cheap Brandy

by Carmarthen Juvenilia (Carmarthen)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Naval Shennanigans, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen%20Juvenilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norrington gets drunk because he's tired of trying to be someone else. Gillette offers a shoulder to cry on, so to speak, but something rather diffferent occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merits of Cheap Brandy

Commodore Norrington had removed his waistcoat and shoes, and sat with his stocking feet propped on the table and his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. His hands were surprisingly brown, his arms pale. Without the wig, his hair was dark and fine, short-cropped.

A half-empty bottle of cheap brandy sat on the table in front of him, and Norrington held a glass in one limp hand. "You may enter, Gillette," he said, glancing at the doorway.

"Sir?" Gillette said hesitantly, "I was thinking you might not be feeling yourself--"

"--what with Miss Swann's new engagement?" Norrington said, and made a soft, sharp noise that might have been intended as a laugh. He poured himself another brandy and downed it in one smooth motion. "On the contrary, I am altogether too much myself."

Gillette paused, trying to puzzle that one out.

"Brandy, Lieutenant?" Norrington's tone was dry as he held out a second glass to Gillette.

"Thank you, sir," Gillette murmured, taking the glass awkwardly. Norrington's fingers brushed against his, warm and smooth, and it took all his wits not to start nervously.

Gillette took an experimental sip and frowned, then picked up the brandy bottle and made a face at the label. "Don't you have anything better than this?" he asked, then realised that it was terribly rude to question his commanding officer's taste in brandy.

Norrington gently took the bottle from him and poured another shot for himself--how many had he had? "I'm trying to get _drunk,_ Lieutenant. Why waste good brandy?"

They drank in companionable, if slightly tense, silence for a time, before Norrington said abruptly, "Without Mr Turner's rash escapades, I'd still be engaged this moment."

"You've got Mr Sparrow to thank for that, sir," Gillette said, somewhat sharply.

"I suppose I ought to. I hadn't quite realised the depth of Miss Swann's...attachment to Mr Turner." Norrington looked at his hands for a moment, lost in thought. "It would have been wrong to marry her."

"You were in love."

"I was not in love with Miss Swann," Norrington said, stiffly, without looking up from his half-empty glass. There were small frown lines at the corners of his mouth.

Gillette wanted very much to reach over and smooth them away. He clenched his hands hard in his lap and vowed never to drink around the Commodore again.

Norrington looked up, his face unreadable. "She used to ask me about ships all the time," he said, and smiled faintly. "'What is _that_ sail for? What does the leachline do? How does the cannon work?' It was rather sweet, really."

Gillette raised his eyebrows sceptically. Apparently the future Mrs. Turner had always been rather odd.

"She's like...a niece to me," Norrington said, with a shrug. "I'm very fond of her. More brandy?"

"A niece," Gillette said flatly, a little floored. "You were going to marry her!" As an afterthought, "Sir."

"In name only." Norrington's voice was casual, light, and he poured another brandy and pressed it into Gillette's hand without waiting for a reply.

Gillette took another sip of his brandy, thinking. It tasted rather better than it had initially.

Norrington stood, swayed wildly, and nearly dropped his glass. Gillette, rather unsteadily, reached out and took it.

"I seem--seem to have lost my legs," Norrington mumbled, his eyes drifting closed. "Be a good chap, Henry, and help up. 'S a bed in the back of the office."

Gillette set the glass on the table and slipped Norrington's arm over his shoulders, trying not to wonder why Norrington had called him by his Christian name. The solid, warm weight of Norrington's body against his was far too welcome, and Gillette was suddenly glad he was drunk. The sails weren't being hoisted this night, as it were.

Norrington stumbled and collapsed against the bed, and Gillette reached out and caught him without thinking. Their chests were almost touching, his mouth right next to Norrington's cheek, and if he turned his head just a little--

Gillette thought vaguely, watching Norrington's lashes fan darkly against his cheek as his eyes drifted closed, that Norrington was probably too soused to remember anything. And he had been wanting--wanting for _years_ \--and where was the harm in one kiss?

He had pressed his mouth to Norrington's before he thought further: gentle, chaste, until Norrington's lips parted against his, brandy and heat, and Norrington's hands came up, sent his wig to the floor, and cupped the back of his head to pull him closer.

Gillette couldn't think with Norrington hard and warm under him, moaning softly into his mouth as they fell onto the bed. There was something desperate in his kiss, in the hard twist and buck of his hips. Gillette didn't resist when Norrington rolled him over and attacked his throat with lips and teeth and tongue. Sweet merciful Heaven, his tongue. Norrington acted like a man who hadn't been touched for years, which was quite possibly the case. Gillette clumsily yanked Norrington's shirt from his breeches so he could run his hands over his back.

As Norrington pressed Gillette back against the bed and gently bit at his earlobe, Gillette thought madly that Norrington was a lot _more_ drunk than he'd given him credit for, even as he whimpered softly and dug his fingers into Norrington's back.

And then Norrington, damn him to Hell, _stopped._ He propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at Gillette, his expression almost ludicrously serious.

"You want to know why, why I proposed to Elizabeth?" Norrington said slowly, slurring and tripping on every other word. "Temptation. I thought, see, if temptation would not get away from me, I would get me away from, from temptation. Elizabeth--Elizabeth was t' be my shield, see, between me and temptation." He paused.

"And who, who do you think was my temptation, Henry?" Norrington asked, with a sly, cat-like narrowing of eyes.

Before Gillette could answer, Norrington rolled off him and fell limply against the pillow, fast asleep.

Even as he cursed the inconvenient amount of brandy Norrington had consumed, Gillette couldn't help smiling as he drifted off to sleep. All in all, it hadn't been a bad evening. With any luck, the morning wouldn't blow it all to bits.

Gillette woke with Norrington's face pressed into his shoulder and Norrington's arm heavy over his chest. His head ached from the previous night's drinking, but even the fear that Norrington would be unkindly disposed when he awoke couldn't dampen Gillete's contentment.

Norrington stirred next to him, rolled over, and groaned, covering his face with one hand.

Gillette tried not to move.

One of Norrington's eyes cracked open and peered at him blearily. "Wha'--what th' Devil are you doing here?" he rasped.

Gillette stared, eyes wide. "I--" There had to be a plausible, innocent explanation for his presence in his commanding officer's bed. He just couldn't think of it.

"Oh, Hell," Norrington muttered, half to himself. "If I'm to be shot for this anyway, I might as well." He leaned over and kissed Gillette, very gently.

Gillette, unthinking, deepened the kiss, bringing his hand up to rest on Norrington's very bare shoulder. "Shot?" he gasped, confused, when Norrington broke away.

Norrington shrugged slightly. He fixed Gillette with a serious, resigned gaze, and said "Well, if you chose, a word from you to anyone--"

Gillette's hand tightened reflexively on Norrington's shoulder. "I wouldn't-- I wasn't going-- I never--" he stammered, then gave up and clasped one of Norrington's hands fervently in his. "I would rather be shot myself," he finally said. "Sir."

A real smile curved Norrington's lips, and there was something more than fondness in his eyes. "James," he murmured, and leaned forward again. "Call me James."

Some moments later, he swore and clutched his head. "I don't suppose you know any good remedies for headaches, Lieutenant?"

Gillette started laughing, and kept laughing, too happy to care that it made his own head ache.

Cheap brandy definitely had its merits.

**Author's Note:**

> Weeding all the non-period language from this gave me a headache--which IS a period word, thank god--and I don't think I succeeded. Why I even bothered when the film has wee!Elizabeth saying "okay" in scene one, I don't know.
> 
> Gillette has no canon first name. Also, I think he should probably be snarkier.
> 
> Compatible only with _Curse of the Black Pearl._


End file.
